


Writ In Blood

by DustToDust



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Community: asscreedkinkmeme, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2015-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-24 07:25:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 8,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1596515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DustToDust/pseuds/DustToDust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabbles series, mostly unrelated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Alone

**Author's Note:**

> I love the crap out of the storyline of AC, but I am absolute shit at playing it. I'm working through a bit of nostalgia right now. Don't mind me.

Altair doesn’t realize how truly alone he is in the world until he has to staunch the bleeding of a wild last blow from a dying guard he had been foolish enough to turn his back to far too soon. The Bureau for the city is not far, but the Rafiq there has been dismissive of his presence so far and is not likely to be much help. Altair would be given fresh bandages at the most, and still be expected to tend and wrap the wounds himself. 

Alone, he hides in a roof top garden that has been abandoned to collect sand and trash with the meager contents of his own medical supplies spread out on a table missing a leg. A strip of cloth, an almost empty jar of salve, and a bone needle that lacks thread. He ignores the salve for the moment and manages a messy job with the cloth that stems the blood flow and not much else.

The effort of it drains him of more energy than he thought possible. The pain of his wounds and his exertion catching up to him faster than it ever has before. Leaving him feeling weak and helpless in a way that makes Altair want to lash out at an enemy that is not physical.

Being alone is not something that one can face with a blade or fists.

He has never held much faith in others. His expectations have ever been too high for people, and they have always proved to him how little he should extend his trust. It is why he pushed so hard in training. Aching to be better, faster, stronger. Enough to not have to rely on those who only continued to betray him. Knowing he was better off to rely only on himself, and no one else. 

Abbas and his black tongue had only been the first person to drive that point home to Altair.

It was a foolish thought. The belief that he did not need anyone, that he was good enough to be perfectly fine all alone. Altair sees the stupidity in it now that he truly is alone, and not simply ignorant of how much help he received before. 

He has always been able to at least rely on the other Brothers of the Order for some form of aid. Some small thing that only the most nervous of novices could mess up. Like cleaning hard to reach wounds and making sure the wound wasn’t larger than it feels to Altair’s fingers. His normally sure fingers turned clumsy from the angle and lack of sight.

In Masyaf there are physicians to care for the wounded returning from missions, and the every day injuries of training. In the field, his own Brothers would be expected to do the work if the Bureau was no option, but Altair is far from Masyaf and no longer allowed either of those things. The Bureaus are closed to him as anything but places where he is to relearn lessons he already knows. The Master’s way of punishing him for his failure. His Brothers do not look at him these days and would not dream of helping him now. Their contempt for him having less to do with his failed mission and more to do with his failure to help his own Brothers when they needed him the most.

Altair hisses as his fingers slip and prod painfully at the wound. He is alone now, more so than he ever thought he was before. More than he thought possible. He lays himself out on the dusty floor of the enclosed area, turning until the pain in his back fades to a dull ache, and closes his eyes. Biting back the fine sense of paranoia that screams at him for being so vulnerable in such a public place. He needs rest now, and the safety of the Bureau will not welcome him. The watchful eyes of his Brothers will not guard him. He is alone, utterly, for the first time in his life, and Altair must rest. Must mend his own wounds, and guard his own sleep. He must do this to earn his redemption. To earn back the safety and simple aide he had once taken for granted.

The Master had assured him, his redemption would not be easy or quick, and --for the first time-- Altair is starting to see the truth in his words.


	2. Desmond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have a rather long and convoluted headcanon on who Desmond is to Ezio as opposed to who Ezio is for Desmond. Also, all about how Ezio seems to be caught between the past figure of Altair and the future one of Desmond.

Desmond.

A name, strange and foreign to Ezio but masculine sounding even as it rolled off the tongue of a woman claiming divinity with her own name. Her eyes looking past him into the glowing shadows created by ancient words that flickered in the vault. The words she threw at him sharp with reprimand as she dismissed him and all his efforts. Not willing to acknowledge Ezio or his questions.

So very much effort, blood, and death spent on a woman who denied being divine even as she spoke to a spirit Ezio could not see. Words he could not comprehend except in their dire urgency.

He should have known when he was called Prophet. A prophet is a man given words to give to others. Nothing more and nothing less. A mere container for the wisdom and revelations of another being. A higher being, though Ezio's belief in such a being as a god --a shaky concept even with his family alive-- has suffered greatly over time.

The woman's words and disregard had burned him then as her form disappeared. Leaving him alone in the now dark room with his confusion and unanswered pleas. That name, that damnable _name_ the last thing she said echoing in his ears.

It was all over in that instant, and Ezio was left to continue on with no more knowledge than when he entered the Vault. Only more questions and a name that would linger in his mind. One that he would say to himself at times when sleep alluded him, or the distance between cities grew long and there was none but himself to hear the way it sounded. 

Desmond. Ezio knew not who he was, or would be. He only knew the name and the feeling, distant and phantom, of being watched. As if one stood over his shoulder and watched his life with him. A feeling that grew stronger only around the artifacts and was never as strong as when he paid his respects to the skeletal remains of a great man. 

Altair Ibn-La'Ahad. 

A Grand Master and a man truly worthy of being called Mentor for all he had done for the Order. For all that he had done to protect one last artifact of great power. It glowed, the Apple, and the urge to take it up was strong but the feeling of being watched was stronger than ever before. As was the feeling of wrongness.

"Desmond," the name rolled off his tongue. Foreign syllables no longer foreign or strange from the years of saying it. It felt right to lay down his weapons, to place the symbols of his position on the ground.

Ezio is a Prophet, and he's spent what feels like his whole life trying to be something more. To be more than just a vessel to carry knowledge he doesn't understand to someone he does not know. All his travels and battles have gotten him little but stories to tell and more questions that he has accepted will never be answered. He has done the best he can with what he has, but now is the time for that to end.

Light glows from the artifact, reminiscent of the Vault as Ezio speaks to a man he knows is listening to him. A man he knows now might have _always_ been listening. Even when he thought himself truly and wretchedly alone in the world. It has been a comfort to him lately, and when the golden glow coalesces into the shape of a man Ezio only feels a sense of fond kinship for him.

He makes out a face, eyes, strange clothing, and the sense of a solid arm under his hand before this apparition too disappears. Gone, perhaps for the last time in his life. Ezio is left alone in the dark with the bones of a legend, and the now inert sphere of an artifact he will not touch.

There's a sense of loss to it, equaled only by a sense of profound relief. Desmond is gone, back to where ever it is he hails from, and Ezio's task is finally finished.


	3. Rise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crossover with Rise of the Guardians, because my brain hates me. North would be Edward, Tooth is Connor, and Sandy would be Ezio. That is all I have. I weep while my mind cackles.

Desmond follows someone, or something, down into a dark alley. He leaps down from the roof and vaguely wonders if he should be worried or not.

"Been a long time, Jack Frost. Blizzard of 68, I believe? Easter Sunday, wasn't it?"

Desmond stands up from his crouch and throws a grin over his shoulder. Unexplained blur of movement running over the rooftops? He should've known it would be Altair. The man steps out of the shadows of the alley. The half light reflecting off his eyes and the knife he casually flicks up in the air before catching. It's enough to give most sensible people nightmares, but Desmond has never claimed to be very sensible.

"Buns!" Desmond twirls his staff and holds it --loose but ready to block-- because Altair _hates_ nicknames, and Desmond _loves_ seeing the way his jaw twitches. It's a clear recipe for massive, global spanning fights, and it's been far too long since they last had one of those. The Spirit of Spring likes to pretend he's far too busy for the likes of Desmond. "You're not still mad about that are you?"

Desmond knows he is. The entire day had to be cancelled because of the snow, and it'd thrown off the man's carefully scheduled plans for the entire year. His face had been worth the asskicking he got for that prank.

"Yes!" Altair hisses as he catches the knife and holds it pretty damn threateningly, but Desmond has seen Altair at his most pissed and isn't really phased. When the Guardian gets really mad he doesn't give any emotion away at all. That's when Desmond knows it's time to start running. "But this isn't about that."

"Oh?" Desmond cocks an eyebrow and leans against his staff, because Altair doesn't seek Desmond out on his own. No one does. Desmond is always the one who has to go to them and get their attention.

Altair doesn't respond, just nods to the left and Desmond has a half second to realize they're not alone before he's being picked up. "Hey! Let me go!"

Glowing eyes glint at him and Desmond tries to lash out but the Yeti are made of strong stuff, and there's not much he can do to as he's folded up into a ball and stuffed into a sack.

He hears Altair laugh briefly before there's a crash and the sound of wind roaring. He sways in the sack as the Yeti runs and Desmond curses as he grips his staff tight. Resigned to having to wait to find out what he's gotten himself into this time.


	4. Never Should Have

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU, and random musings. Also, whump.

It never should have happened, for damn good reason, but neither Malik nor Kadar had cared when they were placed in the same unit. Not when they were placed in the same platoon. It'd been a joke, the older and younger brother working so closely together. Malik's presence one more level of authority over Kadar. It made things easier on them both, being able to be so close together when Malik had been sure they would have been kept apart when they joined the Army. Being able to get up and go about his day easier when he could still keep an eye on his younger brother.

It never really mattered that the brothers were so closely kept together, not when they were stationed in the States. Not until the deployment orders went through did it matter.

The dry air of the country had been harsh, as had the workload they received from day one of boots on ground. It'd been a blessing then to have Kadar so close. Not having to worry about distance. All Malik had to do was look up to see his brother was well. Easing his mind from some of the worry and stress that comes with a constant schedule of presence patrols, and escorts.

They're six months in when the higher ups seem to realize they've got two brothers not only in the same unit, but the same platoon going out on the same missions. Malik rages when the Captain informs them that one of them is being moved. That the orders come straight from the General himself, and there's nothing that can be done. Malik's response to that is enough to get him several article 15s, but the Captain lets him have his moment before sending them both away.

"It's not that bad," Kadar says when they're in the shitty barracks they're quartered in. Trailers sectioned off in three rooms for two men each. Worse, somehow, than the thirty man open bay barracks they'd had before the trailers were brought in. "They'll just shift me to another platoon, not like they're going to send me back home, right?"

They don't. They also don't reassign him right away. The decision was fast, but the paperwork --as always-- is slow to go through making the change official. Kadar refuses to leave them before he absolutely has to and no one pushes for it. They've all worked together for too long to want to give up their comforting stability for the uncertainty of a new and untested soldier. It's a shitty time to replace anyone, and they're all angry over the decision.

Maybe if they hadn't been so pissed things would have turned out differently.

Malik remembers the argument. His arrogant as fuck team leader imperiously ordering Malik to drive forward, Kadar's assurances over the headset that he doesn't see anything wrong from up in the turret, and Malik's own unease that something wasn't _right_. Something was off with the area and six months should have been enough to make them all listen to that instinct.

Should have, would have, could have. Malik lives by those thoughts now.

"Kadar!" Smoke stings Malik's nose and he gags on the smell of it, mind uncomprehending over the smell of burnt flesh as he claws at the vest over Kadar. Pulling the releases open and searching. Searching for what he hadn't found at his neck, either wrist, or anywhere. "Damn you, damn you don't!"

Hands seize him from behind and Malik lashes out, hears a grunt as he's released. Kadar doesn't move, doesn't flinch and Malik feels a scream building up in him.

"Stop! Sayf!" The hands are back, a voice calling out the shortening of his name that had been determined for the best by the higher ups early on. Malik strikes out again but he doesn't connect as he's dragged away from Kadar. "Your arm! Damn you stop fighting me!"

The pain had been unnoticeable until then, and the scream that had been building leaves Malik in a burst as it increases suddenly. All of it focusing in on his left arm. Malik remembers the sight of a tourniquet being twisted into a bloody mess before he must have passes out.

Things after that are blurry. Malik exists in a haze of drugs for the longest time. Faces and ceilings swimming in and out of his vision, but his mind is too full of nothing to care or follow even when they almost seem familiar. He's already in Germany when they wean him off the heavy drugs and Malik surfaces enough to think. There's an empty space to his left where his arm should be, but it's not as big as the empty space to the right where his brother should be.

It never should have happened. Family members should not be allowed to serve together for a very good reason. Malik knows that now. He can see it every time he closes his eyes and Kadar's dead eyes stare up at him, his skin torn and burned by a blast he cannot remember. 

It _never_ should have happened.


	5. Loose Dirt

"Are you going to try again?" Malik asks with curiosity coloring his voice.

Altair pays the man no mind as he paces the length and breadth of the hole they're trapped in. Which is in no way his fault despite what Malik says. He eyes a section of the steeply sloped wall that looks solid and leaps up as far as he can. He climbs building taller than this, the wall should not be a problem.

Dirt crumbles under his fingers and Altair grits his teeth as he sinks his fingers into the soil as deeply as he can. It's slightly wet still, the sun not having dried it completely and it continues to crumble under his weight.

"You're sliding down," Malik offers helpfully from his seat below him. "You might want to start moving or you will end up back where you started."

Altair ignores hims and moves. Kicking into the wall of loose dirt to push himself up. Hands clawing for any hold he can get. He's sliding down more than he's moving up, but he _is_ moving up.

"It's like watching a child learn to walk," Malik's voice reaches him all too easily. "Are you sure you are a Grandmaster and not a Novice?"

A large chunk crumbles under his left foot and Altair plunges further than he wants before catching himself. He throws himself back into the climb. Focusing on the dirt directly in front of him and not the lip of the hole above him.

"No, that's an insult to Novices. Even the clumsiest ones know how to climb a simple wall."

"If it's so simple you are welcome to try yourself!" Altair spits out, and then spits again to clear his mouth of dirt.

"But Altair," Malik's voice is deceptively light and utterly cruel, "I only have _one_ arm. How could I climb myself?"

He had known that remark would come back to bite him the second he opened his mouth, and Altair has no one else to blame but himself for it. Malik takes insults to his fitness personally. He always has, and it's only become worse with the loss of his left arm. Altair is going to be paying for that remark for months now.

"Are you climbing or trying to swim up the dirt? We both know how you are with the latter, I would suggest you start actually climbing," Malik is spiteful in his glee.

Altair wishes he'd chosen the area above Malik's head now. Just for that one brief moment of being able to kick dirt back onto the sharp tongued man. He grinds his teeth together --feeling dirt between his teeth-- and tries to concentrate on climbing. Throwing himself up as fast as he can to get above the rain of dirt.

"Impressive!" Malik calls out. "If you put a little more effort into it you just might make it up instead of flat on your back this time!"

Altair curses and is rewarded with another mouth of dirt for his troubles. He can barely see the lip of the hole even when he tries. The dirt cascading straight in his eyes when he tries. His next lunge up finds it and Altair doesn't make the mistake of thinking he's finished this time. The lip holds as he scrambles up but, like his last try, starts to slowly crumble the further up he gets. Altair throws his other arm out as soon as he can to grab another hold. Further away where the dirt is drier and more stable.

Rolling up and over the edge is an ungainly spectacle with zero dignity. He rolls to get distance and allows himself to lay there for a bit on his back. Breathing hard from far more exertion than should have been needed. He barks out a sharp laugh, "There! I made it! Happy now?"

"Unbelievably so," a bit of dirt drops down on his face and Altair opens his eyes to gape up at Malik standing above him. Shaking some of the loose dirt off of himself and looking unbearably smug. "It only took you _how_ long to make the climb?"

"How?" Altair hisses the question as Malik turns to walk away, trailing dirt despite his best attempts to shake it all off.

"Firstly, I did not try to climb up in a straight line, that helped greatly," Malik waves his arm negligently behind him and Altair doesn't need to see his face to know there's an unbearably smug grin on his face. "You might have heard of the tactic in passing, or perhaps not. It is one of the first things we teach Novices after all."

"I hate you," Altair breathes and doesn't care one bit if Malik hears him or not.


	6. Fracture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Was asked by Kaitouhime on Tumblr what would happen if Altair fractured his left wrist. A lot of idiocy was my first thought.

"It's broken you idiot!" Malik snaps when Altair persists in trying to strap the bracer of his hidden blade onto his arm. The small noises of pain he makes as he tightens the straps down going beyond annoying. He gets up from the desk he's been hunched over for too long now and crosses the room to stop him. "Why do you persist in harming yourself further?"

Al Mualim had broken it in their fight, and the riots that had erupted afterwards had done him no good. Strict instructions for the newly appointed Grandmaster to leave it be have been ignored. Malik had hoped that the pain of his attempts would teach him to head the words of the doctors, but it's clear now that Altair will remain as hard headed as ever.

"I am fine!" Altair snaps, and there's frustration in his voice. A good sign because the man has been listless these past few days. Grief and guilt hanging over him as the graveyard gains more bodies. The unease of the change in power still gripping some of their Brothers, enticing them to betrayal.

"You are not," Malik snorts and makes short work of the buckles on the blade. Altair does not stop him though he scowls as Malik lowers himself to the cushions that had been brought to the study still so filled with secrets only Al Mualim knew. Altair refuses to leave such dangerous knowledge unguarded until they can deal with it themselves and sleeps in the room at night.

Malik props Altair's arm on his raised knee and shoots another glare at the man when he tries to move it away. Quelled, he takes his time to study the arm. There's a bruising that goes deep under the skin starting from the heel of his hand to halfway down the arm. A dark red and purple that has a few distinct lines that Malik can easily read as fingers when he runs his own lightly over the damaged flesh. The bone itself is not horribly broken. Nothing had broken through, and the doctors had not had to reset it. Simply warning that any overt use could compound the break into something more serious.

It's almost a pity it was not worse to start off with. Altair still has an inability to properly respect things that he cannot see. A shard of bone sticking out of his arm would have made him more likely to allow himself to rest and heal.

Altair hisses as Malik circles his wrist with his fingers. The noise is sharp and cut off fast, Altair's face turning mulish as Malik prods at the swollen area. "I don't know why you are even trying to wear that right now. The straps will not fit until this goes down, and it will not go down until you _stop_ trying to use your hand. You must allow yourself to heal, Altair!"

"There's not time for it!" Altair spits out before his shoulders slump and he falls back onto the cushions. His frustration melting away into something far more petulant, and something Malik hasn't seen since they were both children. "It hurts."

"Because you are an idiot," Malik scolds even as his lips try to steal up into a grin. "It hurts because it is broken, do I need to call one of our doctors back up here to explain how that works? Even Novice know to take the time to heal properly before pushing themselves."

"I don't even have to do anything for it to hurt," Altair protests as he brings his arm up to rest on his chest. Fingers curled in a loose fist. 

"That is the nature of broken bones," Malik picks up the blade and turns it over in his hand. Examining the inner workings of it as Altair shifts and grimaces as the movement no doubt pains him.

"Do you wish to have one?" Altair eventually asks, voice catching a little like it always does when he thinks he's encroaching on areas best left alone. Specifically the matter of Malik's arm and Kadar.

"I have only five fingers," Malik snorts and throws the bracer to the small chest that has become container for all of Altair's clothing and spare weapons. It thumps down on a set of black robes he has yet to put on. "I will not sacrifice one of them."

"But what if I could alter it?" Altair asks after a wince. Either at the pain or the guilt that Malik doesn't think will ever go away. "Build it so that the blade would not need to be so close to the arm."

The hidden blade is more than just a weapon. To the Brotherhood it is a symbol of all that they strive for, all that they believe. The sacrifice of the finger to use it is symbolic, and the oaths they take as the digit falls are sacred. He doubts that the idea of taking that away from the Brotherhood will be welcomed.

"Perhaps," Malik hedges and keeps his doubts to himself with a sharp shake of his head as he rises to his feet. Altair will have to heal before he can even think about making a hidden blade anyone can wear, and the time for that grows longer the more he stubbornly pushes himself. "For now, why don't you worry about finishing reading," Malik nudges a pile of scrolls closer to Altair, "these treaties?"

"But I hurt," Altair protests with a guileless expression that makes Malik want to kick him. His eyes are lighting up with laughter the longer Malik glares down at him, and he makes a show of curling his other hand protectively over the broken one. 

"You are about to hurt a lot more if you don't stop complaining like a Novice practicing unarmed combat for the first time," Malik snaps and turns to walk back to his desk. Perhaps it truly is his, because Altair shows more fondness for working on the floor than anywhere else. Altair gives him a wounded look when he looks back briefly, but he can hear the crinkle of parchment when he goes back to deciphering the scribble of notes not in Al Mualim's hand.

Altair forgets himself often, and Malik hears the bitten off sounds of pain but at least the idiot isn't actively _trying_ to break himself further. It's a small improvement, but Malik will take what he can get.


	7. The Internet Said

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Kink meme](http://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/2158.html?thread=11978606#cmt11978606) fill where the dialogue was provided.

"I cannot believe you actually thought that was a good idea," Shaun eventually says for lack of anything better to say. Anything that isn't a blistering wall of pain and threats that got old after the first thirty minutes of him kicking Desmond off of him. He hisses as the small icepack touches his skin. The iciness is both a relief and an agony that's almost worse than the pain itself. Almost.

"Have I mentioned that I'm really, really, really sorry?" Desmond does look very pathetic and regretful. It does very little to easy the absolute fire of pain Shaun's feeling. Especially not with the way the _lying_ bastard's lips keep wanting to quirk up into a smirk as he watches Shaun. "Like, really and truly? And I swear, I thought you would enjoy it! The people on the internet said-"

"The people on the internet are _idiots_ who have probably never had or seen real sex in their lives!" Shaun snaps back, cutting that idiotic excuse off fast. Going to the internet for any sort of answer is beyond stupid for someone like Desmond who as admitted to not knowing much about using it. The only way to get something right from it is to post the wrong answer somewhere, and even then you have to wade through an astonishing amount of stupidity to get the truth.

Desmond has the good grace to grimace and nod in agreement over his idiocy. He shifts on the bed and looks around the room uneasily. Shaun takes pleasure in his discomfort and keeps his glare up as the dumbass fidgets with his battered bag a bit. He eventually comes up with a crumbled square of foil which he holds out like a peace offering. "-want some chocolate?"

"Screw you this goes beyond apology-chocolate, and I didn't even think that was possible!" Shaun doesn't exactly smack the candy away from Desmond, chocolate is a luxury commodity that the girls don't indulge in when they go for supply runs, and he's not going to risk making it inedible. His sweet tooth won't allow him to do that in good conscience. "And from now on, stay the hell away from my nipples."

"Aaaaw!" Desmond pulls an exaggerated pout, and Shaun uses his free hand to snatch the square of chocolate away before kicking him off the edge of the bed. The jolt sends a bit of pain through him but it's worth it to hear the yelp when Desmond crashes to the concrete floor.


	8. Precious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Misfire fill](http://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/2158.html?thread=11920750#cmt11920750). No sense. Just crack and fourth wall breaking.

"I demand that _this_ ," Lucy jerks back reflexively as a sheet of paper is shoved into her face, "be minted and used as currency for the world from now on."

"What?" Lucy takes the paper from Rebecca mostly out of self-defense than any genuine curiosity. It's a screen capture of a familiar site and Lucy skims over the prompts she saw last night before latching onto a new prompt. "Oh."

"Oh? Oh!?" Rebecca pokes the paper from behind making it flutter in Lucy's hands. She's grinning, wide and with a lot of teeth but Lucy only glimpses it out of the corner of her eyes. "This is the hottest prompt ever and all you can say is, 'oh'?"

"I wouldn't go that far," Lucy protests even as she can feel her cheeks flush and heat creep up her neck as her mind helplessly turns to the possibilities. "It's precious, I'll give you that, but I think you're over reacting a bit here."

"Well then, I guess you won't mind if I take this back," Rebecca reaches for the paper and Lucy reacts before she can stop herself. Snatching the paper close to her chest protectively. 

Damn.

"No, that's fine. I'll just," keep it forever. Lucy smooths her face out into the professional mask she's used far too often in far to many situations, but it's already too late. Rebecca's full on leering at her when she turns away. "Go recycle the paper."

"Liar," Rebecca sings as Lucy walks away, fingers itching to add her voice to the seconds for the prompt.


	9. Addiction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Misfire fill](http://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1795.html?thread=9806083#cmt9806083) again.

"I think we need to have a talk," Desmond says after they've finished dinner. A pretty bland pasta that Lucy doesn't have the courage to ask too much about, because bland is still edible and if she knows what Shaun threw into the sauce she just might find reason to reinspect it in the toilet. 

"Hm?" Rebecca doesn't seem to mind the bland flavor, and has been steadily decimating more than her fair share of the food. No one has tried to stop her and risk having to eat leftovers later. Not even Shaun who had been prickly about the taste earlier.

"Yes, talk," Shaun dries his hands off and steps away from the bucket they've set up because the sink in this safehouse is plugged with something that looks like cement. He adjusts his glasses and Lucy doesn't realize they're being caged in until the men have taken up position by the only entrance into the kitchen. They stand on either side of the door, arms crossed over their chests (a much more impressive thing on Desmond, though Shaun's got a decent glare going that makes up for his smaller build) as they stare them down.

"Ok," Lucy places her fork down, and exchanges a glance with Rebecca who shrugs as clueless as Lucy. Lucy checks the room for weapons, and decides to go for Shaun first should she need to. She doesn't think it will get to that, but the checks are automatic for her. "About what?"

"We're concerned," Desmond says and uncrosses his arms to dig into the pocket of his hoodie. "About the two of you. You're our colleagues and friends."

"Not by choice per se, and I'm more upset than concerned," Shaun cuts in as Desmond trails off. "But the sentiment is basically the same."

"Are those _index cards_?" Rebecca says incredulously, and Lucy looks over to see that Desmond does in fact have a few bent note cards that are filled with his unreadable handwriting. He's squinting at them and doesn't bother to acknowledge Rebecca's question. Not even the follow up one that rings through the room with her voice. "Oh, god, is this an intervention?"

"No?" Desmond looks over the cards intently and doesn't look either of them in the eye.

"Yes," Shaun contradicts before swiping the cards from Desmond. He glances at them before shaking his head and tossing them towards the box they're using for trash. They flutter uselessly to the ground a few feet away from it. "Yes it is. You two have a problem and it's starting to effect us all. He," Shaun jerks a thumb to Desmond, "is 'concerned'. _I_ , on the other hand, am getting tired of it all."

Lucy has a feeling she knows where this is going, and she's torn between laughing and wanting to bang her head on the table.

"Is this about the whiskey?" Rebecca asks with a snarl, hunching over her plate like it's the whiskey and she has to protect it. 

"What whiskey?" Lucy hisses because she's told them they can't have any. A little bottle or one can is fine, but the danger of being drunk is to great to risk more than that.

"You have whiskey?" Desmond says nearly over Lucy's words, but he sounds more betrayed than anything else. 

"Like you don't have some tequila in that flask you carry in your bag!" Rebecca snaps back, eyes shifty and obviously looking to pass the blame. Desmond flinches enough under the accusation that Lucy knows she's going to be going through his things as well as Rebecca's later.

"Moving along," Shaun clears his throat loudly. Breaking up the three-way stare off that's threatening to suck all the air out of the room. "No, this is about the little extracurricular activities the two of you get up to after our dive missions are over. That thing that has the two of you giggling like loons for hours on end."

"Oh, that," Rebecca snorts and shrugs. Turning back to the last dregs of her dinner. 

"Yes, _that_!" Shaun snaps. Upset at Rebecca's casual disregard of the matter that Lucy was right about. It doesn't help her decide if she wants to laugh or reach for some preemptive aspirin though. "Did you think I wouldn't _notice_ what you were doing?"

"Shaun," Desmond starts but gets cut off by Rebecca who surges to her feet. Eyes blazing with glee and feigned outrage. Lucy sighs and props her head in one hand to watch the show.

"Notice _what_ Hastings?" Rebecca's grin shows off several sharp teeth as she squares off with Shaun for something that has turned into yet another of their frequent fights. "What is it that you've noticed? Go on. Say it. Out loud. Say it!"

"Mommy porn!" Shaun spits out with a snarl and anger that makes Lucy choke on a laugh. Desmond slumps against the wall next to the door and snickers into a fist. " _Damn_ you! Quote that awful pile of sparkly shit again and I'll shave off your eyebrows in your sleep."

"You're the one who recognized the source material," Rebecca taunts with a smug smile. "And so what if we write out porn? You can't tell me you don't pull up some videos at the end of the night to watch. I had laundry duty last time, I _know_ what you get up to."

"That, that is _different_ ," Shaun protests and swings a nasty glare at Desmond whose snickers are growing louder. "Look, I'm not objecting to whatever gets you off at the end of the day. What I am," Shaun's voice rises as Rebecca scoffs and starts to say something, "What I am objecting to is your blatant disregard to my very being by using me in this mommy porn that you _share_ with the world at large!" Shaun throws his hand out towards where the van is parked in an enclosed garage. The building too small and temporary to set up a room. He takes a deep breath and he's calm again as he says, offhandedly, "Oh, and Desmond too."

"Thanks," Desmond drawls and Lucy can hear the implied _asshole_ under it.

"Look," Lucy says and is proud of herself when her face doesn't heat up under the very shrewd gazes of her team. The embarrassment is eating its way through her slowly, but she's not going to show it. "If it bothers you that much we'll stop," Rebecca makes a protesting noise but Lucy ignores her for the moment. Sure, it'd been fun. Writing the stories with Shaun and Desmond after a long day of working. It'd been funny at first using their names and likeness. Using the events and arguments of the day to build up a short story --or a longer epic depending on their mood-- and put it up online for others to read. The response and reviews have been gratifying, but ultimately secondary to the fun Lucy's had working through problems and tension in a fantasy world where three simple words can fix everything in the world. 

Lucy rises to her feet and raises an eyebrow at the men who are looking at her. Shaun with suspicion and Desmond with a calm acceptance. "It was just a bit of fun. There's plenty of other things we can do."

"Oh, come on!" Rebecca cries out but Lucy doesn't look at her.

Shaun's not buying it, but Lucy pays him no attention as she pushes through them. Rebecca close on her heels with protests ready. Lucy shakes her head sharply and starts walking faster. Putting some distance between them and the kitchen. She doesn't speak again until she's sure they're out of hearing range, and even then she keeps her voice very low. "We can always change the names, and description. Stop posting here Shaun knows we post. Get a new handle. It's fine, we're not working on anything that's unfinished right now."

Rebecca grins. Sly and pleased and Lucy mirrors it. Sure, it'd started out as a sort of joke, but the longer it went on the more addicting it got. Stopping is the absolute last thing on her mind.


	10. Number

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based off [this](http://ashestodustdusttoashes.tumblr.com/post/88864182393/brolininthetardis-this-is-a-coffeeshop-au) old pic because I'm not tired of it yet, and will get every OTP in on this sometime before I die.

As if the sign itself isn't obvious enough, there's a post-it note hanging precariously off the side --because there's no room for anymore writing on the small board-- with his name written on it. Malik takes the time to appreciate the poor planning and absolute cheesiness of this gesture before turning to the smug face of the man behind the counter.

"One, you are not a barista. You shovel cheap ground coffee into a pot, run hot water through it, and throw creamer at people who ask for anything more than that," Malik says and that's not the insult Altair is clearly taking it as from the way his face is screwing up into a scowl. 

It's no Starbucks and that's the whole reason Malik keeps coming to this hole in the wall even though there's five coffee shops between here and his home that'd be happy to take his money. Malik just isn't willing to part with his hard earned money for something with a name longer than his caffeine deprivation will allow him to remember. 'Coffee, black' is the full extent of his vocabulary most days. The eclectic selection of food and drink --that seems to change daily-- is quaint when he's awake enough to appreciate it, and that's really all he needs.

"Two," Malik pauses here and debates how best to word his second point. Mostly because it took him six months to figure out the truth of it himself, and it's embarrassing how long that took. "Two, you don't actually work here. You just shove Desmond into the back when I come in and pretend you know how the register actually works."

Also, various other implements of cooking and drink making that Malik has taken to ordering from each time just to see how far Altair was willing to take the charade. His bank account has appreciated the long break of not having to pay for lunch for so long though. The gobsmacked look on Altair's face as he's caught is worth the wait as well.

There's a loud bark of laughter from the back and a clatter of metal on metal. Altair spares a dirty look to the open doorway before he tries to visibly gather himself again. "I do actually work here-"

"Owning the shop isn't the same as actually working here," Malik cuts in with relish, and admires the way Altair's mouth works before he snaps it closed with a click. Desmond sounds like he's having problems breathing in the back.

"How," Altair's eyes narrow in suspicion, and his lips push out slightly in an almost pout that Malik's looking forward to bringing to his attention eventually, "do you know that?"

"It's called public record," Malik says as Desmond sidles out of the back. A to-go cup of steaming something in one hand, a bag that looks about right for the sandwich --and thank fuck Desmond has always been the one to make it considering how very many times he's seen Altair almost slice a finger off-- he usually orders, and a deeply red face. "Given how incompetent you are I thought you were the owner's son. Imagine my surprise to find out you actually own this place. Shouldn't you have _some_ working knowledge of your own business, Altair?"

Desmond starts laughing again, muffled badly, as Malik takes his order before scuttling away again. Altair jerks to the side and Malik hears the sound of a foot connecting before Desmond lurches with a curse. He ignores the furious exchange of hand gestures and snarls the two --supposedly grown-- men exchange as he pulls out a few bills and drops them on the counter. A first, he usually hands over his card for Altair to pretend to swipe, and turns to walk out.

He's almost to the door before Altair seems to pull himself out of his silent argument with his employee enough to notice. "Hey! Wait, Malik!"

Malik ignores Altair's shout and continues out. He's got an actual deadline today and has already spent more time getting lunch than he'd like. The board is reflected imperfectly in the door briefly before he's through it. Malik wonders at the coincidence that Altair finally grew enough of a set of balls to ask --indirectly-- for his number the very day Malik grew tired of waiting. Hopefully, Desmond sticks around long enough to point out the numbers inked onto the money he left behind, or Malik will never let him live it down.


	11. Every Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Request for how Altair and Malik take their coffee. Modern AU.

"I am not holding your hand when the dentist has to remove your rotted teeth," Malik says as he watches Altair empty nearly the whole container of sugar into his cup. No wonder the man asked for a smaller sized drink in a larger cup. "Also, you’re going to have to find someone else to date, because I swore to my dead mother I would never go out with someone who wears dentures."

"Stop confusing me with Kadar," Altair leaves maybe a dusting of sugar in the hefty container and ignores the dirty look they’re now getting from one of the barristas to grab the carafe of creamer. "Not everyone shares his phobia of dentists. I’m only putting this much in because the coffee here tastes like shit and I have to use something to disguise the taste."

Both barristas are now glaring black death at them, and Malik takes a healthy swig of his own cup. Straight up coffee with only a touch of cream and sugar. “Tastes fine to me.”

"That’s because you drink straight from the coffee pot every morning," Altair picks up a shaker of cinnamon and looks at it doubtfully before shrugging and adding a good shake of it to his unholy mixture. "Your taste buds have been seared to death, and you can no longer taste anything."

Malik watches in morbid fascination as Altair gives his cup a good stir. The liquid inside is a color Malik can’t right call anything else but puke tan. Altair snaps the lid on it and takes a cautious sip. He grimaces and shudders, “Fucking awful. Why do we come here.”

"Because you’re a moron who doesn’t know how to not mess things up," Malik sighs and puts his cup down to fish out a hefty tip from his pocket. The glares lessen a little for him, but stay pointed on Altair who is still bitching about the drink he’s ruined.The twenty will guarantee them at least one more day of being able to come here, but Malik has no doubt they’ll soon get banned from yet another cafe. He picks his cup up and turns to walk back onto the street. Not bothering to check if Altair is done aggravating the workers.

Altair will follow or he’ll catch up eventually, and then Malik will steal his wallet to make up for the money he left in the tip jar.


	12. Burn It All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Addams Family Value was brought up and a request was made for AltMal in the camp somehow. I laughed. Then I wrote.

"You're wearing your arm," Kadar says with all the suspicion he's learned in his far too few years on this planet.

Malik lets the smile --painful and absolutely wrong to his face-- drop because they're alone and he doesn't have to pretend right now. He curls the fingers of his left arm, feeling the tiny pinpricks of pain that come about every time he reattaches the limb. It's useful having two hands at times, but Malik generally prefers having just one arm. As the target of the few times Malik has decided to use both arms Kadar has the experience to know that a two-armed Malik is something to be very wary of.

He turns and finds his brother is not alone. Altair stands just behind the boy and looks adorably confused and wary. The young man has the sense to realize the danger in Malik. Something that so few people in this dreadful place has, and Malik feels oddly pleased by that. It's a new feeling for him and he'd be more irritated by it if he didn't have an awful revenge to plan out.

"Yes, I am, brother dear," Malik smiles at them both and this one feels right to his face. It's cruel and dark. Kadar tilts his head and watches him with his unnaturally blue eyes. Altair takes a cautious step backward but seems unwillingly fascinated, which is an interesting reaction that Malik will have to explore. Later though. "I'm going to need both hands to burn this place the way I want to."

A plan is already falling into place and he itches to start laying out the groundwork for it. Visions of the world on fire flicker to life behind his eyes and Malik has to check the grin he wants let out as he turns and beckons his minions to follow him back to where they can be seen. He modulates it back down to the fake cheer that makes his skin itch and crawl. Kadar follow to the left and Altair to the right. Falling in seamlessly enough that Malik decides it might be worth it to take him with when he's finished with his revenge here.


	13. Sale

"That wasn't on sale," Malik observes as a dented cardboard box is dumped in his lap. It's a purplish pink in color and may have been heart shaped once upon a time before someone sat on it.

"No," Altair says as he drops onto the couch next to him. He's got a fistful of emptied foil wrappers in one hand and an open bag of candy in the other. 

"It's not even the good stuff," Malik pries open the box and looks at the chalky looking chocolates within. A landmine of unknown flavors that will all inevitably be awful. Malik doesn't even bother looking at the diagram printed on the lid. Those things always lie. "You paid full price for shitty candy."

"You're eating it," Altair points out.

And regretting it. Malik grimaces as he eats something that's vaguely fruity. The filling is offensively pink and sticks to his tongue. He drops the half eaten piece back into the cheap plastic tray and tosses it onto the coffee table before reaching for the bag Altair is holding. "My mistake. Give me that."

"No, get your own," Altair shoves a few pieces in his mouth but doesn't move away when Malik slides sideways to reach for the bag. "I paid for this with my own money. go buy your own stuff."

"I'll do that tomorrow, when everything is 75% off like most people do," Malik gets a handful of chocolates and pops two immediately to take care of the foul fruity aftertaste.

"All the good stuff will be gone by then," Altair snorts and twists under Malik's weight. Using his legs and one arm to roll them until Altair's stretched out on the couch. Malik settled on top of him and between his legs. A comfortable position that gives him free access to the candy.

"The good stuff that's out in the open," Malik corrects and settles into the curve of his boyfriend's body. "But they can't sell what's been carefully hidden away behind a wall of oatmeal."

"Really?" Altair laughs and the motion of it jolts Malik. "Did you go in and hide candy so you could buy it on sale later?"

"You can get on your knees tomorrow," Malik says with no shame, because that is exactly what he has done, "and beg me for some of my Babyruths then. I may even give you some if you ask prettily enough."

"Cheapskate," Altair laughs harder and spills a few chocolates on his chest before discarding the bag to work on the foil wrappers.

"You love it," Malik makes sure to steal more than his fair share before relaxing and losing himself to the TV once more.


	14. Really?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Request for a prompt involving jumping into the others' arms. I could not help but think this brand of idiocy is a modern AU thing.

Pain. 

Pure and unrelenting in a way that Altair hasn't felt in his whole life. So strong it sucks all the air from his lungs and he has to fight through it to suck in more air. Forcing his paralyzed lungs to work once more. Drawing in first one then a second breath. 

The air is sweet but the action makes the pain spike hard enough that sparks dance behind his closed eyes. Lighting up the darkness behind the lids. He wonders if the continued pain is worth being able to breath, but his lungs have already gotten past the paralyzing pain and he has no control over it anymore.

The pain ebbs with his breathing. Growing sharper and lesser in time with it so that he can measure it out enough to become accustomed to it. Only when the pain isn't his whole world anymore does he crack open his eyes.

Malik looks down at him. Face set in mild disgust and apathy. He waits until he's sure he has Altair's full attention before allowing his lips to turn up in a mocking smile. His voice is saccharine and lilting when he speaks. "And _what_ did you think would happen when you threw yourself at a one armed man, Altair? Honestly. Tell me, I'm morbidly curious as to what kind of thought process led to that brilliant decision."

"Fuck you," Altair breathes out, and then glares as Malik laughs.


End file.
